


Up To Landing

by GalaxyAqua



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Can be read standalone, Companion Piece, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Past Abuse, M/M, at this point it's just mutual pining, because Korekiyo is such a fool, this is the last one I promise, to Stairway Railings (fic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 13:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16175660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyAqua/pseuds/GalaxyAqua
Summary: Humanity is comprised of immensely beautiful parts, its roots rumored to have descended from the stars themselves, and Korekiyo believes it, naturally, but never more so than when he looks at Rantarou —catcheshis stare, knowing the weight of his gaze is one he shouldn’t encourage. He shouldn’t allow it.And yet.





	Up To Landing

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday Amami! this is a companion fic to [Stairway Railings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14045619) which is set before this, but both can be read standalone as well! tbh I didn't intend to resolve this fwb timeline at all, but they did it for me, and I'm glad they did. hap birth

Again, inevitably, dawn comes to steal the night away — after all, the sun never ceases in its grand, beautiful orbit — and had Korekiyo the words to describe how the morning soothed his soul, he fears he may never want to leave it.

Three words, two hyphenated, catch on his tongue when he reminisces.

‘One-night stand’, yes, that is how it begun.

With Rantarou, from Rantarou — Rantarou with his soft meadow green eyes and his gentle yet guarded smile — he truly did not know what to expect, and that is where his curiosity about him grew nigh insatiable.

 _One-night_ was a cruel limitation. He could only discover so much in one night.

Thus, he allowed himself to sink into it in pursuit of intellectual refinement, finding continuation with the awkward situational fumble of “please” and “thank you”, before Rantarou had kissed his mask, tentatively, and the one night became lost in countless nights henceforth.

Henceforth, and onwards, their stories began to weave together.

Though in truth, the history of their little tale spans further still. Back to when Rantarou had crossed Korekiyo in the hallways of the school they had once attended and they would nod out of courtesy, converse out of politeness — now it has blossomed, spectacularly.

Long lost is that distanced acquaintanceship, the quick skeleton smiles have grown flesh, and Rantarou’s laughter sounds more alive now than anything Korekiyo has ever known.

Humanity is comprised of immensely beautiful parts, its roots rumored to have descended from the stars themselves, and Korekiyo believes it, naturally, but never more so than when he looks at Rantarou — _catches_ his stare, knowing the weight of his gaze is one he shouldn’t encourage. He shouldn’t allow it.

And yet.

To look at Rantarou without thinking, to realize that he is almost always looking back, to understand that Rantarou is painstakingly memorizing his features until the next time they meet, and the next and the next and the next—

It is en route to disaster.

That is the danger of the fall, of the lure, of the inescapable brightness of concentrated stardust. Of falling— of this traitorous turn of events—

Korekiyo is erring on bitter, in ways he shouldn’t be, in ways he cannot control. He was sure he had said first, “You must not fall in love with me… I cannot ever love you, and you cannot expect that I will. You understand, do you not?”

At the time, Rantarou had also been confident in answer.

“Yeah, definitely,” was his reply, the same confidence in the way he slotted their hips together and murmured, “This doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be.”

And yet.

Regardless of consequence, there are some unshakeable truths Korekiyo knows that he must come to accept.

They are accomplished adults living separate lives, sleeping together out of want for company, and despite all he had done to prevent it, Rantarou Amami has fallen in love with him.

 

* * *

 

He finds he can trace back inklings of it, if he thinks hard enough.

Tied in moments where Rantarou’s gaze would hold on a touch too long, where he’d call only to hear his voice on the other end, where he’d ask in tenderness if Korekiyo would like to travel with him, and Korekiyo would have to respectfully decline.

He cited privacy as the reason, but it was laughable to cite privacy after scattering their clothing all over the bedroom and touching each other, eager and animalistic. Laughable to cite privacy when they’ve gasped fluidly with one another, bare-fleshed and hungry and keening with desire.

Their strictly physical relationship should by all accounts be controllable, that is true, however, there is always some unpredictable factor of human nature that is so very fascinating. That forbidden fruits always taste the sweetest, for one, and that Rantarou succumbed to the weakness of his humanity with his one sided love.

It is _so_ riveting. So enthralling, to think, humans can love anything that sways their heart, and Korekiyo need not do more than kiss him and he’ll crumble but the cracks won’t show. He is breaking, slowly, but nobody is supposed to know.

Korekiyo is not supposed to know, and that is what thrills him so.

Yes, there are unfathomable wounds that can be inflicted upon oneself without anyone knowing, and Rantarou does not seem to care for self-preservation when their lips lock together like they were made to fit no other.

A weakness, perhaps, but it does not make him weak.

On the contrary, Korekiyo admires Rantarou for his strength. He can’t get enough of him, sometimes, the hurt and the adoration mingling inseparably behind mascara-tipped lashes, the way his mouth frames silent words, nails them up against Korekiyo’s skin when he allows himself the pleasure. It’s intoxicating, as though every time Rantarou does something he shouldn’t, he both comes to heal and to destroy himself.

So this is what love does to a person, Korekiyo muses.

Determined, Korekiyo will not love, he is incapable of allowing himself that weakness ( _“I was not a victim. I am telling you truthfully, I was not a victim_ — _why are you trying so hard to convince me that I was?_ ”) and so he banishes the thought, but observing love at such a close range is all the more enticing to him.

He does not know why, but it feels utterly enriching. Enlightening to discover such a wealth of human beauty in the palm of his hand. It’s whispered curses behind gritted teeth, arms that curl like willow branches, a voice deep and smoldering, burning, pleading for salvation.

It is a newfound, new kind of all-encompassing emotional torment that Korekiyo has never seen before. Never experienced, or so much as imagined, not even when he was still a little partial to the thought of love.

( _“She wouldn’t have bothered with me if she didn’t love me! I am the one who should be grateful to her! I am not a victim!”_ )

He can hear it on Rantarou’s lips as he— confessed multiple times, in fact, during their time together— almost always teetering on the precipice of losing himself to longing, begging for Korekiyo to take him—

 _Hmm_ , Korekiyo snips the memory out of his mind before he can entertain it, knowing that it would do no well to think of their casual rendezvous when he’s on the train leaving one.

He will not turn back, even when he’s reminded of the way Rantarou curls up in the space he leaves behind, as though haunted terribly by his swift departure. Another night, he vanishes, and does not call it cowardice.

Korekiyo sighs quietly, feebly disallowing the sickening yet fascinatingly human lurch of his stomach as he thinks about it. There is company he can offer to resolve Rantarou’s quiet pains, but does not, because he cannot imagine he would survive until morning.

How could he, when thinking of Rantarou sleeping vulnerably in his arms is enough to make him tremble, enough to reap thoughts of holding him tight and never letting him go.

On mornings, when the sun wakes to shed light on his wrongdoings, when the night can no longer blanket their meetings under the guise of enchantment, Korekiyo falters.

He cannot bear witness to a morning together, and he had known this from the start. His policy, as it was with anyone of whom he would share a single night, is not to stay. Not to love. Not to even entertain the thought. Not to possess more than physical attachments in any way, shape or form.

Though Korekiyo knows fully that he cannot let his mind wander, lest he regret what he finds, he’s already returning to it.

The gracious curve of his lips, his smile, his hands, his sighs, his ever favorable disposition.

He must stop. There is no use in lingering on these thoughts. He must remain reserved and impartial to learn what he requires, no matter what the subject matter may be, lest he allow his empathy to ruin his carefully crafted plans. This much, he has always been certain.

For once, he is grateful that Rantarou travels so insistently, because it means it will be at least another few weeks before he has to face him again, and by then, he should be able to gather his thoughts, fix his composure, right himself back to neutrality.

He must.

The train pulls into his station and he stands even though his knees are weak.

For once, he is grateful that he is near the only one out under moonlight as the rest of the city slumbers, because it means nobody will be able to look at him and know he’s tearing something up inside.

He does not love.

However.

Rantarou is unbearably irresistible.

( _“You don’t understand anything! How dare you claim I am innocent? I deserved to be punished for speaking out of line, oh no, I was no victim, Your Honor, I was the monster—”_ )

Korekiyo hides it well, but he is terrified of what this could mean.

( _“—and all she ever did was love me for it.”_ )

 

* * *

 

The fear does not subside when they meet again.

Rantarou is unpredictable in that the more he wants, the less he demands, and if Korekiyo were not so adept at reading him, he would not know what to do.

The thing is, Korekiyo is not accustomed to casual friendly encounters. It is a given that people don’t ever willingly choose to spend time with him when he has nothing to offer as compensation.

The thing is, he has never been any less than accepting of this fact, rather comforted by the distance which allows him to observe his peers without interruption.

The thing is, sometimes they meet for coffee or for a cinematic experience or for a museum, an art gallery, a library, a park and Rantarou pays, and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

He will just smile, twisting the intricate silver rings on his fingers and reassure him that his being here is enough.

It’s not what they agreed to, but company is still company, Korekiyo reminds himself, and there is this loneliness that still beats at him from the inside. This emptiness that comes with surrounding himself with raging physicality and little else.

The human form is beautiful, Korekiyo is eternally grateful to be able to witness so many that come and go, but he’s found that ever since Rantarou has been taking him places and Korekiyo has been inviting him out in return, he has been neglecting to add to the numbers.

Rantarou pervades his mind, constantly, from his sun warmed laughter, his deep honey freckles, his delicate lashes, his passionate wanderlust, his spontaneity, his sweetness, all down to his flitting, butterfly tendencies.

He’s unhinged him, somehow, for Korekiyo has started to reject the advances of others even though he’s notorious in the nightscape for collecting emotionless one-night stands like currency.

It is not what they agreed to.

What they agreed to was an immediate satisfaction sort of relationship, where sometimes words fall short because neither of them have the will to speak. Where language evades them, where their throats close up and their voices forget their purpose.

No, that’s not true. Korekiyo could whisper novellas against Rantarou’s skin if he had the chance, waxing so lyrically it would be hard to tell if it was prose or free verse poetry.

But he doesn’t say these things out loud.

Instead, he ducks his head, offering a polite invitation to stay the night again. Of distractions, he has many, but why not distract himself from Rantarou with Rantarou himself?

Rantarou laughs, and it’s a light, airy laugh — too innocent for the moment which possesses it — and he takes Korekiyo’s hand in his own. It’s solid, and warm.

They go.

 

* * *

 

For some reason, Rantarou is driving him up the wall, both figuratively and literally.

There is no hesitance here, even when Korekiyo knows that Rantarou’s love is a slow-acting poison for him.

That it’s buried deep in the adventurer’s reckless, nomadic heart. That it’s in his veins, searing hotly through his blood every time he meets Korekiyo and pretends what they have is love.

The way his lips move, mindlessly capturing every inch of skin he can find, is heartrending and beautiful.

Korekiyo regrets not taking the time to fully assess it, absorb this feral being that loves him hard, hard, hard, because he loses himself in the feeling. He cracks, splinters under Rantarou’s touch, the burning stardust-humanity in his fingers, in his voice.

“You are beautiful,” Rantarou mouths against his throat, “So beautiful. You are the,” hands in his hair, legs between his thighs, “Wilderness, the moonlight, the aurora in the atmosphere, so fucking pretty.”

Here, Korekiyo is truly speechless, breath hitching, chest heaving.

All he knows is that he should be taking notes, but his mind is such a haze that all he can see and feel and touch is Rantarou.

And they are all that exist right now. Together.

“God, you’re a _phenomenon_ ,” Rantarou murmurs, the softness of his lips giving way to the sharpness of his teeth. Feral, truly, but the night permits it. There are animals that only belong to the night. Nocturnal. “That nothing can compare to.”

Korekiyo has always been fascinated by the universe, but he has never seen stardust as ravenous as this.

 

* * *

 

It does not stop. Rantarou is reckless, he knows this, he knows that there are things he doesn’t want to face that Rantarou will – and one day they will collide. There’s something in Rantarou’s gaze that’s made up of all the risks he takes, all the dangers he invites, and one day, it’s going to come out.

“You’re different, today,” Korekiyo murmurs, pressing finger to Rantarou’s mouth. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing,” he rasps, and because he looks as though he can’t bear to speak anymore, he takes the digit between his teeth. His tongue draws it in deeper, seizing it hostage, a move to silence himself, yes, but it doesn’t do any favors for Korekiyo’s avid mind.

“Rantarou,” Korekiyo says, and unable to hide his sharp intake of breath, he colors, a touch of red lighting his cheeks. He doesn’t pull his finger away. “You know that you can tell me anything, right?”

Rantarou glances up at him, spontaneously courageous in the moment, and slides off his finger to answer.

“I love you.”

 _You can tell me anything_ , Korekiyo’s mind supplies, _but that._

“Ah, this again, how familiar,” he laughs instead, vivaciously skirting away from the truth. “Why do you keep running, Rantarou? Your fantasies must be truly something, if you are satisfied with using me as a replacement for your love. To have your affections like this… I’m sure that whoever they are, they must be wonderful. Shall I assist you in your pursuit?”

Rantarou only sighs. It isn’t anything but acceptance, one ringing of a solemn defeat. He does not correct the claim, does not speak the words he should, does not bare his soul.

Korekiyo tries to convince himself it means nothing to him.

 

* * *

 

He wonders, sometimes, had he been able to stop the influx of those words, if things would still be the same between them.

If he had scrutinized more intently, cornered Rantarou and was more forceful in tearing out a tried and true confession, he wonders if he could have spared them both the torment.

He supposes that Rantarou isn’t the only one pretending.

Korekiyo knows that he shouldn’t keep prying, shouldn’t maintain that he doesn’t know who Rantarou’s love declarations are for, shouldn’t take advantage of his vulnerabilities for the sake of pursuing knowledge.

And yet.

“I love you,” sounds so fulfilling, as much as it terrifies him. “I love you,” repeated desperately, “I love you so much.”

He realizes that Rantarou has come to voice this sentiment under the assumption that he truly believes Korekiyo is not aware of the meaning that lies behind it, and that excites him just as much as it unsettles him.

Korekiyo knows that he is in the wrong for his deception.

And yet.

Rantarou is also in the wrong for betraying their agreement. Even if it could not be helped, even if his heart knew no other option.

And yet.

A torturous love, a groundbreaking and hopeless love — Korekiyo is enchanted by it, mesmerized and captivated by it. He does not want to let this go until he knows it completely.

That is the downfall to his unending curiosity.

 

* * *

 

Missing someone is a foreign feeling.

Korekiyo has not missed people many times in his life. He has simply never quite known someone intimately enough to feel their absence, and the one time he did, it was a period of his life he dare not speak of.

( _“She isn’t gone, Your Honor, she resides as a ghost within these walls, and she speaks through me. I have surrendered my flesh and bones to her in grief, even though it is far less than what she deserves. No, she did not hurt me. Please stop saying that.”_ )

Still, he misses Rantarou. Foolishly, though he does. He knows Rantarou’s nature by now, knows the restlessness in his lungs and the thirst for adventure in his soul.

Such a violent urge to be free from everything, sometimes Korekiyo wonders why he comes back at all.

As a friend, he should be happy for him. He is.

This time Rantarou has flown off to France to satisfy a craving, and Korekiyo hopes he finds it.

As a friend, yes, Korekiyo delights in his happiness, recalls the excited lilt to his words, his fluttering hands. The way he speaks like there are sunflower fields around them, like they are in a world on their own, like they have found peace in their companionship and need nothing more.

As a friend, he misses him kindly.

He thinks about what Rantarou must be doing right now. It is morning in Paris, so perhaps he has found himself a quaint café and an earthy coffee.

Perhaps he is still in his hotel room, perhaps he is thinking of Korekiyo and the last time they had met, on the rare occasion Korekiyo relinquishes control to him and lets him do whatever he wants.

Rantarou had been generous, for he is a generous lover even though they are not lovers. Kisses all over, down every surface he could reach, worship clambering up his throat, the beautiful curve of his spine, the way he glistened in the dimness, sweaty and needy and seeing nothing but the night.

Korekiyo wishes he would come back soon. His body reacts, unwittingly, to the recollections and he sighs.

Regrettably, he touches himself to the images, form aching in remembrance of Rantarou’s fingertips against his skin. His head between his thighs, his artful tongue, his soothing voice — he recalls all of it, undoing himself in private for it.

Thoughts of other one-night stands pass fleetingly, and he realizes just how unhinged he really is when he has to bite Rantarou’s name from his lips as he climaxes, toes curling, back arching, and overflowing with yearning.

 _It is sinful_ , Korekiyo thinks in a feverish haze. _I am no good for him._

But try as he might, he can no longer imagine being with anybody else _._

 

* * *

 

Rantarou comes back. He always does.

Korekiyo finds him at the airport fifteen seconds to midnight, bundled in a scarf and something akin to loungewear, but on Rantarou, anything appears to work flawlessly.

He is beautiful.

“Pardon the bluntness, but you look as though you’ve freshly crawled out of a dumpster,” Korekiyo says, instead of the truth. They step in sync onto the tarmac, and Korekiyo, feeling a little showy, twirls his car keys around his finger while they walk.

“I _know_ ,” Rantarou groans. “I’ve been on a plane for almost 12 hours, I feel disgusting.”

“Why, Rantarou, I would have assumed you’ve grown accustomed to planes by now.”

“Just because I’m used to them doesn’t mean I like them.” He grumbles, running his hands through his unkempt hair. “I was so bored. I played chess with myself. I learnt how to play mahjong and the computer kept beating me. It was agony. I thought I was never going to be free again.”

“Oh, you are _so_ dramatic,” Korekiyo quips, lips quirking into a smile behind his mask. He unlocks his vehicle and pulls the door open for his companion, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Get in the car. You’ve got another hour of entrapment awaiting you.”

“I’m going to die.”

“Rantarou, please, just get in the car.”

“My death is imminent, and my life is flashing before my eyes,” he pulls his scarf over his head. “Promise you’ll avenge me when I’m gone.”

“Christ, you’re a mess,” Korekiyo nudges him into the car, shaking his head fondly, “I regret to ask, but you didn’t sleep at all on the flight, did you?”

“Haha, not one bit.”

“Kukuku… is that so? Well, that explains a lot.”

The drive back to Rantarou’s place begins in companionable silence, and Korekiyo almost thinks he’s fallen asleep already until he sees Rantarou fiddling with the vents out of the corner of his eyes.

“Hmm… forgive me if I am speaking out of line, but are you alright, Rantarou?”

He looks back at Korekiyo sheepishly. “I’m fine. Just. Thinking, is all.” Then. “Oh, did you not want me touching the vents? I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s quite alright,” he answers. “Just… thinking, is all.”

Korekiyo leaves it be like that, continues their usual dance of swapping travel stories on the way home, because he fears what his heart is capable of conjuring if he does not.

For once, he recognizes that there is something manifesting in Rantarou’s mind that he does not want to know, because as much as he fears to succumb to the fall of love, he also fears losing Rantarou one day — when he’s finally seen through the charade, or when he’s finally had enough.

Collide, one day, they’re going to collide.

Not to mention, the sun does not fail to rise every morning, and Korekiyo is helplessly coming to be a victim to it.

He thinks they could be lost in this day-night cycle forever, and he wonders if either of them would be truly content with that.

“That’s what I mean, they park so tightly together, I wonder how they get out and — oh, by the way, have you got anything planned for tomorrow?” Rantarou asks, breaking off mid-sentence to follow another train of thought.

“Tomorrow?” Korekiyo echoes, surprised. “Hmm, no, I don’t believe I do.”

“Okay, just asking,” he replies, nodding. “So anyway, I have a conspiracy theory that nobody actually drives in France…”

“Rantarou, people most definitely do drive in France.”

“No, listen, hear me out…”

 

* * *

 

Rantarou’s home is familiar to him, he knows it like his own, and when he’s whisked indoors, he makes himself comfortable, boiling some water, making some tea.

The kitchen is as cluttered as he remembers, and when Rantarou skips off to take a shower, Korekiyo busies himself with organizing the stacks of books, magazines and the like. The trinkets that scatter themselves everywhere are a lost cause, but Korekiyo arranges them as tastefully as he can, lamenting the amount of glitter that ends up on his hands.

He really must stop Rantarou from his obsession with shiny objects, he muses with a touch of mirth. Rantarou says the same thing about him and his haunted doll collection, however, so he supposed that’s a battle he won’t be winning.

“Hey,” Rantarou re-emerges in the doorway, shirt forgone for a towel around his neck. His sweatpants cling low to his hips. “You steal anything while I was in the shower, home intruder?”

God, but the night is a cruel enchanter, and Rantarou is crueler still. He is radiating warmth, sleepy-eyed and relaxed — by all means a visage of unrefined weariness, but a striking visage all the same.

Not for the first time, Korekiyo understands how it feels to be carnivorous.

“Yes, I’ve stolen everything you own. Dry your hair before you go to sleep, please,” Korekiyo tells him, instead of the truth. “You’re jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, we do not want a headache on top of that, yes?”

“M’tired,” Rantarou mumbles. “You’re a bad thief. You’re not supposed to tell me you’ve stolen stuff.”

“Well, I believe I have a habit of being unconventional,” he replies. He steps towards him, intent on reaching the hallway peacefully, but cannot help but hook finger under his chin, taking in every detail of Rantarou’s lidded gaze. “And now I am off to steal your hairdryer since you seem to have a vendetta against looking after yourself properly.”

“Bathroom, second drawer,” Rantarou sighs.

“You are making this far too easy for me.”

Despite the sounds of his reluctance, Rantarou drags himself after him, and Korekiyo hums placatingly, linking hairdryer to socket before pointing it at him.

“Don’t move.” He says.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Rantarou replies. “How is it that you can make anything sound ominous?”

Korekiyo laughs, his typical, and equally ominous, “Kukuku,” before clicking the hairdryer awake in lieu of a proper response.

He dries Rantarou’s hair, ignoring his fidgeting and occasional chirps of, “Okay, stop, it’s dry now!” when it isn’t.

“Why do you have such a hatred towards hairdryers?” Korekiyo remarks amusedly after he’s done — and admirably, Rantarou’s hair is actually dry and fluffier now, the residual heat non-deceptive. He runs his fingers through it again just to make sure, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t also do it for the self-satisfaction.

“You don’t like air conditioning and I don’t like hair dryers. It’s for achieving balance. That’s just nature at work.” Rantarou huffs.

“Hmm, I would fashion that you simply don’t like standing still.”

“I don’t,” He agrees, already on his way back out the door. Korekiyo tucks the dryer away before following, perhaps to ensure that he’s not going to flick on the television and sacrifice even more sleep, but Rantarou is compliant in padding off to bed.

He dives into the pillows headfirst, scattering some little sapling cushions he had once won at a festival at the local shrine. Korekiyo has numerous at his own home, all tiny green two-leaf heart-shaped things — admittedly, they had been perhaps a touch overzealous with the games. Just a touch.

“Goodnight, Rantarou,” Korekiyo says, at once content to let him be. He picks up one of the fallen saplings and places it gently beside Rantarou’s head.

“Wait.” He hears as his hand is retracting. “One more thing.”

“Yes…? What do you need?”

“Can you lie with me for a while? I missed you,” Rantarou murmurs, voice quiet and muffled. “You don’t have to, but… I missed you.”

Korekiyo knows he shouldn’t, not under these circumstances and not when he’s very, very tired and very, very weak. There is no good reason for him to accept.

And yet.

“For a while.” He acquiesces, just as quietly.

Rantarou emerges to smile back at him, making space without hurry. There his gaze departs, leaving a multitude of words unspoken, but in the moment, there is also nothing more to be said.

Korekiyo falls into bed with him and forgets himself entirely.

 

* * *

 

Until dawn breaks, and Korekiyo, too comfortable in the blanket of the night, realizes his mistake.

“Korekiyo, are you awake?”

“Mmh,” he murmurs, roused by the urgency of the voice. “Good morning.”

Then, it hits him where they are, and what time it is, and suddenly Korekiyo’s defenses start to draw up, caging him despite an outward sense of calm. Rantarou is warm in his embrace, but so close that it’s dangerous.

He is in danger.

It’s because Korekiyo can’t help but to want to hold onto him indefinitely, drenched in his presence, his scent, his eyes like open fields. He wants to kiss him, here and now, but he also just wants to hold on, hold near, hold fiercely.

He wants, and he’s scared of just how much.

Immediately, he lets him go and pulls away, curling his fingers to his chest. His heartbeat is too livid for the time of day.

“Good morning.” Rantarou clips in response.

“How interesting.” He comments stiffly. “We have not shared the bed in the morning before.”

“That’s the thing.” Rantarou says, and the very way his words form seem painful. His gaze fixes stubbornly on the ceiling, locked onto the closest sight that will have no chance in swaying his decision. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“You do not wish to share a bed?”

“At all.” He says. “Not for the sex, not for anything.”

Korekiyo senses his hesitance. His scraping for his last tendrils of control in this situation.

Every story has an ending, and this could be theirs.

Korekiyo is not naïve. He understands that he could do many things to keep him here, but he will not force Rantarou — free spirited, exquisite Rantarou — to stay where he doesn’t want to.

He loves him far too much for that.

He’s surprised to find the admission to himself doesn’t hurt. Perhaps, he muses, he hadn’t fallen suddenly, head-over-heels, knees-scraping-earth, but had been gliding in his descent this entire time.

And he has finally landed.  

It doesn’t hurt.

“You’re quiet,” Rantarou says. “Are you okay with this? Leaving us like this?”

Korekiyo takes note of his own dread that pools uncomfortably in his stomach, but he very soon comes to realize that he should be grateful for this turn of events.

It forces him to make a choice.

“If it is as you wish, it will be so.” He replies evenly as possible. “Though it is a rather sudden decision, I must admit... may I inquire as to why, exactly?”

“... no,” Rantarou still doesn’t look at him. “Sorry. I don’t want things to change between us, but this is tearing me apart.”

“When the human mind and body are in disarray, that is likely to be the case. Whatever this is, it must be savage,” Korekiyo murmurs. “May I be so presumptuous as to suggest something of an offer?”

“What is it?” When Rantarou asks, he sounds breathless. Foolishly, he makes the mistake of meeting Korekiyo’s eyes this time — for if Korekiyo is anything, he is _cunning._

“If I can coerce you into screaming my name one last time, will you tell me the truth?”

 

* * *

 

It is tactical, but reckless.

He could have resolved this simply— _“I love you too, will you be mine?”_ — but Korekiyo does not say those monumental words, he takes the road less travelled, he paves his own road from amidst the wild shrubs and he’s found himself lost ten times around. Less a traveller, simply a wandering fool.

It is true. Korekiyo does not always make well-informed decisions, but he does not take it back. Rantarou makes _him_ reckless.

This, too, is an opportunity for discovery.

Rantarou is speechless, for a second, but he does not decline. Adventure is in his blood, he does not back down from challenges. It is in taking risks that he thrives. Flourishes, beautifully.

Korekiyo rests his palm on Rantarou’s chest, keeping him still as he looms over him, swinging leg over hip to entrap him. Rantarou’s fingers slide up his thighs, tuck ever so carefully beneath his shirt, lifting it off. His composure is commendable.

“How do you plan on making this happen, exactly?” Rantarou asks teasingly.

Korekiyo wants to wreck him, he does, but with his newfound realization, he also wants to make love to him so tenderly he can hardly bear the weight of it.

Unravel him with softness, rewrite history on his skin, make him see the very stars rumored to be his genesis — the root of his creation.

He could call it off right now. He could tell him the truth, let the cards be dealt as they may, allow Rantarou reprieve from his aching, tumultuous love.

And yet.

He doesn’t know why he tortures himself like this.

That’s a lie. Korekiyo knows that he is willing to go to great lengths for his research, and this is no exception.

As a fact, Rantarou is not excessively vocal.

He’s only ever _screamed_ a bare few times, so it’s clear that he is confident in his ability to hold his tongue, particularly in the morning when he’s less prone to losing himself — but Korekiyo knows how to lure him in just so, and he knows that, should this be the final time they engage intimately, it will be one worth remembering.

He is no seductress. He is not certain it will work, but he has no fear of trying. He has an inkling of how to draw out the confession, one that will feel like Rantarou perhaps hasn’t said anything at all when he’s done, as Korekiyo plans to devour his words like rare delicacies.

Slowly, sweetly, gracefully, he peels away his mask — for once, fearlessly — and kisses him first with the passion of an aching lover, and wonders why it is that it feels so fitting.

 

* * *

 

He says it anyway.

“I love you.”

Exceptionally, Rantarou does not believe him.

This excites him all the more, and he wonders what kinds of reactions he will be able to witness, should everything go just according to plan.

“I love you,” Korekiyo whispers against the shell of his ear, and Rantarou is on the verge of _crying._ “I love you, don’t you know? You are so beautiful, I love you so graciously.”

“S-stop saying things like that,” Rantarou’s breath stutters. It is remarkable to think he had been composed at all. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t play these games with me when you know I’m weak to you.”

“You are too quiet,” Korekiyo mumbles softly, trailing lower and pressing kisses all down the junction of his throat. “I want,” he mouths against his jugular, “to hear you.”

“N _-no_ ,” he insists. “You’re being unfair.”

“Please,” Korekiyo slips his fingers beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and delights in the thick and audible swallow that it garners.

Conveniently, it is all he had worn to bed the night before, and it’s rid of quite easily.

He wraps his fingers around Rantarou’s length and strokes, coaxing out a breathless moan, before Rantarou cheekily, airily, remarks despite himself, “This is your master plan? You underestimate me.”

It’s punctuated with the playful flutter of the adventurer’s palms up his sides, snaking up his back, fingers threading into his hair to grasp at the roots and _tugging._ Korekiyo arches involuntarily, but reassumes control before he can allow himself the pleasure of succumbing.

“My love,” he begins, which seems to silence any playfulness in Rantarou’s expression. “You are not allowed to distract me from my mission.”

“That’s hardly fair—” his words waver unwittingly as he has to break off with a shudder, but this time he yanks Korekiyo’s hair in defiance and Korekiyo gasps.  

“Rantarou, please,” he trembles, then realizes, at once, that despite his casual demeanor, Rantarou is viciously protective of his secret. Though, unbeknownst to him, it is hardly a secret at all.

He takes advantage of Korekiyo’s exposed mouth to press his own against it, murmuring a quick apology — “ _sorry, I’m not gonna make this easy for you”_ — into the space between his lips.

He pulls away looking flushed, and Korekiyo does not know what to do but chase him, returning the fervent kiss, and keeping his hands moving, inhaling the way Rantarou shivers under his touch, all heat and withheld longing.

He does not stop to stare, for his resolve would be too weak otherwise. The night had been keeping this from him, he realizes, he has never seen Rantarou’s face so clearly and unrestrained and the yearning in him is growing violent. He is shaken with how much he wants this, and how much he doesn’t want to lose this.

It’s like nothing he’s felt before.

He’s never loved like this before.

Korekiyo leans over him to grab the lube from the bedside table, and Rantarou makes quick work of his pants as he does so, palming him and teasing the tip with his thumb and _god_ , he has to hold back the moan, he won’t give in so easily.

He coats three of his fingers with the lube before tossing it aside, seating himself back between Rantarou’s thighs and aligning them levered in his lap just so — he has practice with this, at least, an extremely avid flush to his cheeks as he tentatively admits to himself that it’s become muscle memory. It is a shameful self-confession, that he’s that far gone.

He wonders how he could have ever been in denial knowing this.

“Are you ready?” He inquires, heat burning in his stomach, heavy with desire. He hates the way his voice sounds in that moment, though he can thankfully commend himself for keeping his collectedness intact. “I’m starting with two.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Rantarou breathes out, knowing their routine as well, but his gaze is fixed on Korekiyo’s face like he’s trying to figure something out.

Korekiyo will not allow it. He intends to banish every coherent thought from Rantarou’s mind, leave him quaking and thoughtless and knowing nothing but the way he feels inside of him, just like it’s the first time over.

He slides two fingers in at once, holding back the third, knowing Rantarou can take it so long as he’s given the warning, and Rantarou’s head falls back, panting from it. His fingers move carefully, slow, tantalizing, spreading him as gently as he can manage, and, “The third,” Rantarou says. “Don’t hold back. Give it to me.”

Korekiyo makes a low, involuntary noise, and obeys, a mix of anticipation and arousal leaving his lungs short of air, and allows himself the third. He curls his fingers, pressing deeper, and right up against Rantarou’s prostate.

Rantarou claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the obscene sound he makes, and Korekiyo looks at him, considering.

“I wonder if I should allow you to do that,” he remarks lowly.

He doesn’t give Rantarou a chance to respond when he presses against that point again, working his fingers inside of him, eliciting a desperate, muffled whine and Korekiyo presses harder, over and over, stretching, opening, until Rantarou’s hands free his mouth — only to pull Korekiyo down and kiss him senseless.

“ _God_ , come on,” Rantarou sighs against his lips. “What the hell. You make this so hard.”

Korekiyo kisses him again, swallowing what remains of his words because he can’t get enough of the feeling, and Rantarou leans up for him, legs pushing firm around his waist.

“Korekiyo,” he murmurs hotly, a deep blush to his complexion. “Take me. Have me. I’m ready.”

“You are still so tight,” he answers, though the demand strikes a chord in him, igniting his form with longing. His free hand relocates the lube, and he lathers it on himself, trembling as he presses his own hand between his thighs and strokes.

“I can take it, I promise,” Rantarou says, watching him appreciatively. “We’ve done worse.”

This time, Korekiyo is the one that flushes, for he can only recall the countless times they have engaged in more strenuous situations, and it does not help his wanting in the slightest.

Rantarou smiles at the sight. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Korekiyo does not want to respond, does not want to reveal how severely being told that shakes him, does not want to tell Rantarou that he is the only one who has ever said things like that and actually sounded like he meant it.

He is not that weak, but at the same time, he is.

For Rantarou, he is.

He pushes into him, superseding his fingers, feeling Rantarou tighten around him, taking him in with a low moan. He can’t help the way he shudders, “You are so good,” he murmurs. “You are doing so well, Rantarou.”

Rantarou does not reply, not in entirety, unless it is to invent a language all of his own.

His legs wrap around him tighter still, clinging for something to hold onto as Korekiyo buries into him, steadily thrusting into him, and Rantarou takes it, grinding against him for more, fingers digging into his hips.

“ _Korekiyo_ ,” he pleads. “Don’t stop.”

“As you wish, _Rantarou_ ,” Korekiyo pulls in closer, finding that spot within him and bucking hard, hitting his prostate with pleasure. “God, anything you wish.”

“ _Please!_ ”

His pace quickens, pressure climbing, rocking deeper, quaking with him.

Rantarou writhes against the bed sheets, overwhelmed, chipped nails feral against Korekiyo’s skin. The streaks of pain only spur him harder, hips relearning a faster cadence, teasing frenzied, desperate sounds from Rantarou’s lips, drawing closer to what he wants.

So Korekiyo doubles his efforts, driving into him relentlessly, fucking him deeply and with deliberation.

“Kore—Kore _kiyo_ — _ah_ —!” his voice breaks, fraying in a delectable way, determination crumbling into desperation. “Please, _please_ , don’t make me say it, I’ll do anything else you want—”

“This is what I want,” he replies sweetly, eyes scanning him with enthralment. “You should know by now that I want to know every part of you. Nothing pleases me more,” he fists his dripping cock and Rantarou gasps, knowing the overstimulation would be his undoing, “Than learning everything there is to know about you.”

“ _Why_ ,” Rantarou demands weakly.

“Because you are all I think about when I leave. I don’t know how to survive you. My hands miss you constantly, and I touch myself to the thought of you, your perfect mouth, your lovely smile. I am possessed by you even when you’re gone.”

Rantarou whimpers through gritted teeth, “Oh _fuck_ , oh fuck, oh fuck,” edging closer and closer, and, unable to catch himself on a deeper thrust, _screams._

Korekiyo loses himself to the very sound of it, riding through his orgasm just as Rantarou does as well — and he is so painfully beautiful to watch.

 

* * *

 

“You owe me the truth, Rantarou.”

The hazy morning light only accentuates the warm glow of Rantarou’s cheeks, but it’s smothered by the arm he drapes across his face, covering his eyes from view.

“Do I have to? I feel like you’ve already figured me out. As always…”

“Yes.” Korekiyo says. “I want to hear it from you. Believe it to be a form of… closure, if you will. That is what I wish for.”

“Not content with leaving any mysteries unsolved, are you?”

“It is in my nature to be curious. And you are so very interesting. It is a fatal combination.”

He watches him languidly — perhaps akin to the metaphorical cat killed by its own curiosity — taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the starkness of his necklace against his skin. He notes, not for the first time, that Rantarou is a vision of beauty that he never seems to tire of.

Even now, knowing that this is could be the penultimate ending moment, Korekiyo wants to kiss him.

He wants to feel their lips moving against each other, breathing against each other, forgetting how to speak, only knowing one another.

“... fine. I’ve fallen in love with you,” Rantarou confesses defeatedly. “I know I shouldn’t have. I did everything I could to stop it. But I’m weak for you. I always have been.”

“I know,” Korekiyo whispers, and the words hang static in the air. “Of course l know.”

He has to make a decision.

Perhaps, Korekiyo thinks, he _is_ being reckless.

Perhaps he is defying his well-carved reservations, perhaps he is in ignorance of all the years he promised himself never to be hurt by love again. All the years he promised to be faithful to his solitude, to never allow anyone entrance to his heart.

All the years he was controlled by a force that claimed that it loved him, only to leave him broken and bruised and vulnerable. He falters on the memory — remembers how vehemently he denied the word _abuse_ , because it was love. That was love to him.

That was a very long time ago, Korekiyo reminds himself. This is different.

Perhaps, Rantarou’s adventurousness has truly taken hold of him, fed into him bit by bit every time they meet — _perhaps,_ Korekiyo is being a fool, perhaps he will regret this, but ‘perhaps’ is just a word, and ‘perhaps’ is just a probability and he wants to learn this feeling, wants to know why every time they touch, he wants to sink so deeply into Rantarou that he forgets his own name.

“Korekiyo,” Rantarou murmurs. “You have been cruel to me.”

“No, I have been afraid,” he gently shifts on the mattress, moving closer. “Rantarou, I cannot explain why it is, but I will tell you my own truth and it is the only one I know. I think I’m in love with you, too. Madly _. Profoundly_.”

 

* * *

 

Time stills, then happens, all at once.

It is near paradoxical, how groundbreaking yet minuscule his words could be, and though he wants to shy from the exposure, he takes everything in.

He has never been able to resist an opportunity to commit human beauty to memory, and Rantarou is the very definition of it.

He is not going to forget this moment.

Rantarou stops an inch away from him, gaze searching as if trying to find Atlantis in his eyes.

Then he closes in as if he cannot bear to maintain the distance any longer. His hands have found Korekiyo’s hips and their noses meet in a tender reunion. “Can I kiss you?”

Korekiyo smirks. “After what we’ve done? This is hardly the time to be chaste, Rantarou.”

A deep flush alights his cheeks, and he bows his head bashfully. “I just… I don’t want this to be another one of your games. I’m not kidding when I say I love you, and I’m not really, hah, optimistic about the feeling being mutual.”

That rouses a twinge of guilt from his soul. Korekiyo discovers that, despite being so typically verbose, he is at a loss for words.

“Sorry,” Rantarou backtracks, pulling away. “That’s not something I should have said out loud. That’s not fair to you.”

“No, do not,” Korekiyo fumbles for the sentiment he is abruptly desperate to release. “Do not run away, Rantarou. You always run away from the things that you fear. Scrutiny, confrontation, loss. You have even tried to run from _me,_ despite your own feelings, or perhaps  _in_ spite of them,” he draws Rantarou back in, attempting to communicate his truest voice. “I am not good at this, but I am willing to make an attempt, though it may not be one that fits quite right, for I have not had the—”

“You’re still afraid of loving me, aren’t you?” Rantarou asks, cutting right down to the core of his ramble.

“I have… never been the type to be brave, that much is true.” Korekiyo cannot refute that. In his time getting to know Rantarou, and learning to read every facet of him, Rantarou has learned to read him, too.

“We’re both,” he drags his fingers up the small of his back, taking fistfuls of his hair. “Afraid. And that’s okay. We’re stumbling, but we can stumble through this together.”

“You ended up having to comfort me,” Korekiyo remarks, embarrassed.

“Anything, for you.”

“You must know that, all else aside, I am not the best lover.”

“I’m not the best lover either,” he admits. He plays with his necklace, idle and tentative, before he looks up, bashfulness and affection incarnate. “Can I kiss you anyway?”

“Yes,” Korekiyo cradles his cheek, leaning in. “Absolutely, and unquestionably.”

 

* * *

 

Rantarou is nigh insatiable, too.

To say they kissed once and got on with their lives would be a blatant lie, for Rantarou would go on to kiss him soundly, again and again, drinking him in, mouthing against the pulse of his jaw, and marking him. Neck, shoulders, clavicle, chest, anywhere his incisors could reach.

But he always returns to his lips, with the excuse that it is a rare opportunity with someone who covers their mouth so often, and Korekiyo allows him that much — he is overcome with how lovingly they can unite without words, and how starved he is for his touch.

It exudes a warmth Korekiyo had already begun to miss the sensation of every time they part, and he smiles against it — first partially surrendering to his own meekness, yet overtaken by a longing, a desire to seek more.

To drain Rantarou of his possessiveness, to drink in its intoxicating flavor. Oh, to be _loved._

“You must understand that you will have to deal with all of me,” he says, in a tone that invites disagreement, one that dares Rantarou to take back his words if he must. “But if you are willing… then I am compliant, admittedly, to give myself to you. I will be yours.”

“I want you, irrevocably,” Rantarou says, and his voice dips low and soothing. Something to drown in. “I want you to be mine and belong to nobody else. I’m selfish like that.”

“As humans are, and tend to be. It is beautiful that you say so, I enjoy your admission of your flaws,” Korekiyo exhales his amusement, a light breath of air almost missed had it not been for Rantarou’s devout attention to him. “Is it that I misconstrue your intentions, I wonder, for you sound as though you want me to be your concubine, Rantarou.”

Rantarou laughs, in a way that’s sweet enough to stir the soul. “Hahaha, nothing that extreme. I hadn’t thought of it like that before.”

“So had you the chance,” Korekiyo ponders. “Would you like that to be the case?”

“Curious question, isn’t it?” Rantarou leans forward and pecks him on the nose. “I haven’t heard anyone use ‘concubine’ in casual conversation before. I’d need to think on it.”

“So our deal breaker, then,” Korekiyo remarks teasingly, “If I am to use rarer words such as the aforementioned, you will not want me anymore?”

“False.” Rantarou grins. “I’d only want you more.”

“I would not be opposed to being your concubine,” Korekiyo says. “You have grown quite skilled in fornication. And you are rich.”

“Wow. You’re filthy.” Rantarou only grins wider, batting at him playfully. “You only want me for sex and money?”

“I have lowly needs,” his fingers nestle in Rantarou’s hair. “And worldly desires.”

“That’s very dramatic,” he laughs. “I have only one worldly desire, you know that? Just you. Having you would make me content.”

“I am yours,” he replies. “If you will be mine.”

“Obviously.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Certainly.”

“Indisputably.”

“Honestly, I’m going to need a dictionary to be able to keep up with you,” Rantarou sighs, an amused fondness touching his lips. “Not that I didn’t know that already.”

“I could teach you all the words I know,” Korekiyo says. “But we should begin with a clean slate. How do you feel about allowing me the pleasure of stealing the words right out of your mouth?”

“I swear I’ve given you too much power, now all you want to do is kiss me.”

“Kukuku… be that as it may, I believe you were the one that started it.”

“I did,” he eyes him carefully. “But again, that is because you don’t let me do it often, without,” he gestures to the space over his mouth. “You know. The cover up.”

“And you have been nothing but respectful of my wishes, and to that I am grateful. I only wish to reward you,” he feels a pleasant flutter in his chest as he observes Rantarou blushing. “Though I suggested kissing, I must admit, my mind has already strayed back to… more amorous alternatives.”

“What? Are you serious? You are actually filthy,” Rantarou rolls over, unable to fight his smile as he nudges him with his foot. “I’m starting to think you had this the wrong way around, and maybe _you_ want _me_ to be your concubine.”

“Ah… it was that obvious, huh? I have learned my lesson. I will be more subtle in future.”

“You are so ridiculous, I cannot believe you,” he laughs, but there’s a mischievous glint to his eyes when he clambers to his knees and straddles Korekiyo’s hips, “Let me indulge you a little.”

“Please,” he voices, throat going dry, “Be my guest.”

 

* * *

 

The day belongs to them, their tentative touches, their honeypot honeymoon romance.

In duskfall, in nightfall, they do not part.

 

* * *

 

Again, inevitably, dawn comes to steal the night away — yes, this morning and every morning after, for the sun never ceases in its grand, beautiful orbit — and had Korekiyo the words to describe how the morning soothed his soul, he would speak them only into Rantarou’s mouth, and it would be their little secret.

His fears aren’t assuaged easily, but he slowly learns to rewrite his vision of love, and it’s not fairytale perfect, but he doesn’t believe in fairytales anyway.

It might be because he says he doesn’t deserve that kind of happy ending, but Rantarou says they don’t need those clichés, laughing, _they didn’t even start this relationship in the right order._

Korekiyo murmurs that it’s not his fault that they were both insatiable, and Rantarou rolls his eyes and asks him why he’s using past tense when his hands are roaming like a wanderer in the desert. Korekiyo feigns ignorance until he can reintroduce Rantarou’s clothes with the floor.

He does not get embarrassed easily anymore, but there’s a certain kind of comfort in that, looking at how far they’ve come. The history of their little tale coming together, to meet as one, to surrender themselves from dusk until dawn, and dawn until dusk.

Three words catch on his tongue when he reminisces — though he hardly has to when it’s what they say to each other when they’re suspended in quiet moments and all that exists is each other. They are softer now, there is no desperation, only tenderness.

Three words.

“I love you.”

Nowadays, he can’t get enough of it.


End file.
